The Connotation of Cataclysm
by TrappedInPast
Summary: Jess grits his teeth and shoulders his firearm and dares to brave a social function of Richard and Emily Gilmore. Short, three-part Literati.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **If you're wondering what in the world this could possibly be, allow me to explain. I started this as a oneshot a few months ago and then abandoned it. Recently, I returned and I liked the plot so I kept going . . . and going . . . and going. Thirty pages later, I realized that if I were to post this all as one chapter, I would either be ignored or crucified. To solve that problem I'm making it a . . . triology, I guess. Three chapters.

Also, thank you for all the reviews on Penance Definitive and immortal stars awry! They're possibly among my favorite pieces. After immortal stars awry, I discovered a new love for dialogue, so this story will have a lot of it. Now keep your fingers crossed because I'm trying to accurately depict like eight or nine characters . . . let me know how I do, I hope nothing is too out of place.

Thanks for reading :)

**Summary: **Jess grits his teeth and shoulders his firearm and dares to brave a social function of Richard and Emily Gilmore.

**Rating: **T, language (this is Jess we're talking about).

* * *

"Do not tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass."  
-Chekov

* * *

She looks very nice and he's pretty sure that might be the only thing to get him through this night from hell. Focus on her collarbones, he tells himself. Her collarbones. Right. Delicate, smooth, graceful collarbones that are his salvation at the moment because if he focuses instead on the dread and irritability in the pit off his stomach he might bail and that just sounds like it would turn messy.

Of course, studying her collarbones is also taking his concentration away from the road, which is not the most advisable situation when he's the one driving. Besides, you never know when another rabid possum-like-thing might suddenly decide to jump out at your pile of crap car (which he loves, despite the backfiring engine). He tears his eyes away from her and hones them in on the roaring, spinning spool of silver asphalt spilled out before them, glimmering in the darkness beneath periodically spaced streetlamps and headlights.

Some of the tension coiled in his muscles easies a little. Driving does that to him.

Apparently, she's not getting the same calming reaction. He watches her nervously twist her hands in her lap.

"So I've met some of Grandpa's co-workers and they'll talk to me because that's what you're supposed to do at these things, I think, when your office throws these huge-"

"Pointless," he supplies.

"- social banquets. And that means they'll see you -"

"No way," he deadpans.

"- and they'll want to know who you are, and you have to at least be _civil_-"

"I guess that means the whole prostitute ring shindig I was going to put on will have to wait."

"- and you can't just hide in a hole somewhere and read all night-"

"No Nemo-esque tendencies, got it."

She looks at him levelly and he falls silent, smirking, knowing that he has just pushed the line a little and liking the feeling of her mounting frustration being toppled over by her amusement. In the end, she gives in and manages a wavery smile. Score: one for Jess and zero for Rory (neglecting the ten thousand she automatically receives for being the one to have broken him, which he kind of hates her for).

"Jess . . ." she abruptly whines, drawing out the syllable into two and trying to wipe any traces of said wavery smile off her face. "Just . . . please don't do anything . . . that . . . please, just try."

He sighs and exhales. "Rory, I got it. Jeez. I'll only speak when spoken to and at no other time."

She shakes her head and stares out the window while mumbling, "That's what I'm afraid of."

He grins.

It's a fundraiser dinner. He hates fundraisers. They're simply occasions for the upper-class to assuage their racist guilt by stuffing their faces with duck pancreas and talking about how generously they're going to spend the millions of dollars they never generate. He doesn't voice this, though, because it's a tad bit cynical.

"I still don't know why Mom wouldn't drive with us," she says suddenly, staring ahead at the little tan Jeep they're following behind whose wheel Lorelai sits.

He scoffs.

"What?" She asks. Seeing the look on his face, she waves her hand in dismissal. "No way. That was a long time ago."

His eyes darken as he watches Lorelai turn and, a few seconds later, does the same. "Not so long ago."

"She's over it. My wrist's all better. See?" She holds her arm out for him to inspect, which he does out of the corner of his eye and he feels a pang when she reiterates with a childishly certain voice, "All better."

_Oh Rory. Rory, Rory, Rory._

The ache slides over him like water, and the intensity with which he examines her makes her cheeks glow in the resemblance of carnations until he turns away back to the road. In a moment he can speak normally again. "It's a shame," he tells her, "that cast was kinky."

He presses his lips together as she shyly meets his eyes instead of turning away. She has become braver and he likes it.

Again he switches his attention to asphalt. Tree shadows dapple the grey night with opaque and remind him of New York, somehow. She rearranges her hair delicately on her shoulders. She's wearing a dress that's black and white and nice. He secretly wants to crush her sometimes for doing these things which destroy him piece by piece, such as the way she's currently crossing her legs.

His hands start to buzz (like little magnets right beneath his skin are pulling him in to touch her). With a smoothly coordinated glance, he sees Lorelai has gotten a good fifty yards ahead of them and is currently about to pass through a stoplight.

He deliberately slows down without glancing at her.

"That light's turning yellow."

"So that's what that color is."

"You're not a slow driver. Why are you suddenly a slow driver? This is not a good time to decide to be a slow driver! Jess, we're following my mom, and we're going to lose her when we get stuck behind this light!"

"You don't say," he says unperturbedly, coasting to an easy stop just as the light flashes red. He then turns to her with his face deadly serious and she knows. Her mouth rounds a little in surprise.

"Oh," she whispers as he reaches out for her. She willingly presses herself against his gear stick.

"Yeah, oh," he echoes, pushing a strand of hair from her (symmetrically perfect except for the smallest bump on her mid-jawbone) face. He kisses her experimentally on her bottom lip, and then her top.

"You . . ." He kisses her neck and she emits a tiny squeaking noise that makes him grin. "You-timed-this-on-purpose," she hisses, all in a rush, afraid that she will not be able to find enough breath to speak. His lips find her earlobe. She tastes a little bit bitter, almost like she has pressed bourbon onto her skin.

"Huh," he breathes against her temple.

A silent moment passes as she releases little fluttering sounds that result from his skilled and focused work on every inch of her (redeeming) collarbones. He might not be good at talking, but he would like to show her that he is better at doing other things with his mouth.

And he needs to be near her (I-want-nothing-between-you-and-me).

Her eyes cloud over and glass and pool and she is the most beautiful thing he can remember seeing as she presses eagerly and unsurely against him in the torrent of these new emotions he is slowly and carefully unfolding from within her (_'here, look, this is yours-mine, and this, and this, and this, and that, and this'_). She tangles her fingers in his hair and he begins to slide a hand cautiously across her thigh, under her dress, as she pulls at the edge of his shirt.

At that very second, he sees the brightest green of the stoplight reflected in her irises, but he is transfixed by her and he waits until a car horn blares from behind them. Then he jolts away and eases his foot onto the accelerator.

No one speaks for a couple of beats.

Finally, she sighs. It is a shaky, contented, but still wanting more sigh. It makes his ribcage tighten with anticipation. He looks over at her and she beams as she blushes and he smirks.

"Wow," she eventually exhales, trying to pretend she is not exhilarated and scared all at the same time.

He would like to tell her that he is scared too and being scared is where the thundering rush in your veins by your wrists comes from.

"It's nice to know my services are appreciated."

"Wow."

He glances at her again, a shaded silhouette against the webby silver of nighttime, pressed into the seat of his car with her seatbelt twisted from his hand and her hair mussed and everything about her very bright. He likes it, her sitting next to him like this. His fingertips loosen on the steering wheel while his free arm remains propped against his door.

"Jess?"

"Yeah?"

"I like you as a slow driver."

He swallows a grin. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

His eyes dart over to her. "We care enough to send the very best."

"I'll be recommending you all around town."

"Going to rent out an ad space on the bathroom wall?"

"Or the janitor's closet."

"Much more classy."

"I know."

"Nice to know that school of yours is teaching you something."

She falls silent, smiling, glowing, far too happy in this clunking death trap that doesn't have heat and is cold even in the early April weather; she is a radiant study in oil pastels or stained glass or holy sacraments. He forgets that he hates his damn dress shirt and he hates his shoes that are too tight and he had to almost lethally fight her so that she would consent to allow him not to wear a tie. He forgets that he's irritable and he is about to be shut up in a room with the two elder Gilmore women who would like to send the banquet's dinner forks all the way through his head.

It is just her. And it is okay.

She bites her lip. "I don't know how to get to the committee hall," she laments, but she's still smiling.

He feels for a cigarette in his pocket. When he lights it, she says nothing, but her eyes follow in rapture the curling dance of his exhaled smoke.

"We'll get there."

"How?"

He shrugs. She laughs.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It is half an hour and many amusing stops asking for directions later when they finally (kind of) know where they're going and at last (sort of) have a solid destination. She sips absent-mindedly at the cherry Ice-e she insisted on getting at the 7-11 (watching her walk up to the burnout behind the counter and saying, "Excuse me, do you know how to get to the Hartford Social Committee Hall?" was actually pretty entertaining).

"Okay, turn left here."

"No," he argues, "the last fucked up gas station attendant said to turn left here, and I don't trust him. The Wendy's guy said to turn right instead."

She crosses her arms and looks at him menacingly from over the tip of her plastic straw. "You're going to trust the Wendy's guy?"

"Over the guy who asked if I would watch his parakeets while he and his girlfriend go skiing in Vegas? Yeah, I think so."

Her fake fury dissipates and she giggles instead. "That was good."

He rolls his eyes as he, very deliberately, turns right. "Hilarious."

"You should have seen the look on your face."

"Sorry, I'm not a parakeet kind of person."

"I gathered that when you told him, and I quote, 'I'll show you where you can stick your damn birds.'"

"Hey, I was in feminine company. It was the cleanest of the many disgusted responses that appeared in my head."

"And then when he told you they were endangered-"

"Which is a load of bullshit, by the way."

"-you looked like you were about to-" She breaks off suddenly and excitedly points at a blue sign just as they finish weaving their way out of downtown Hartford, into oh-so-wonderful Hartford Suburbia.

Goody. Suburbians.

"Look!"

As if she has seen some oasis in the Sahara or a glimmer of the Promised Land above the desert of Egypt, she begins to wildly wave in the general direction of the windshield. He shakes his head and almost (but not quite, he has dignity, dammit) smiles a little bit.

"It's a sign for the HSC!"

"Help, Stuck in Connecticut?"

"Hartford Social Committee! It's two miles down the road! We did it! We made it! We're going to get there and hopefully my grandparents won't kill me and you won't have to face any parakeets!"

Damn.

He will not lie; he was kind of hoping they would end up on the border near Tijuana.

He leans his head back against the seat and sighs, his free hand playing with the tattered pack of cigarettes in his pocket. She sends him a look that says quite plainly smoking is not okay anymore, with the estimated arrival time so close at hand. He already smells like nicotine from before but he decides that it's not worth it to point this out, just not worth it, friend; he frees his lighter and strikes it on, off once (a habit) before sighing heavily and leaving both the carton of Camels and the Bic alone.

There is a sliver of ragged spring moon on the horizon. He glares at it.

"Here we go," she whispers as the damn social . . . house . . . club . . . thing . . . _edifice _looms into sight. He chews on the inside of his lip and moodily shifts his eyes as he decelerates and stares. It is a massive stone building set smack down in the middle of a godforsaken field that looks like it belongs in freaking Kansas, not Hartford, except for the illuminated fruit trees on the lawn and penguin-suited people squeezing through the front doors.

He feels more dread than he ever did in Brooklyn. That's kind of sad.

Her hands are twisting in her lap again. He glances at her and he would like to kiss her but he doesn't.

"Hey Jess?"

He inclines his head toward her in a response as he swings into the parking lot and dodges three valets that try to meet him, telling them all quite bluntly that he will park his own damn car, thankyouverymuch.

"Jess?"

"Rory, I'm listening. What do you want, a thought bubble?"

She gives him a razor-sharp look. So much for sparing him from her withering stares. "Or a few verbal indicators would be helpful," she snaps, or at least attempts to snap, but Rory-snapping is not an extremely dangerous thing and he manages to escape unscathed.

"I have difficulty forming sentences while mulling over my impending doom."

She all but rolls her eyes, although he sees a glimmer of fear there, too. "I know that my grandma may not . . . well, last time . . . but that was just a bad and unfortunate situation, when you . . . and she's . . ."

"Not exactly part of the Jess Fan Club?"

He eases into a parking space and shifts gears but does not take the key out of the ignition (there is still some small amount of escape as long as he can feel the vibrating rumble and roar of an engine, no matter how falling apart it/he is).

Rory lifts her head pristinely. "Of which I'm president," she says with a tinge of fake-but-not-really pride. He scoffs.

"And the only member."

"Not true. Haven't you seen the way Miss Patty and Babette and even little Clara stop to stare at your-"

"God, Rory," he interrupts, looking at her in disgust (and he is blandly glad that he didn't eat before he left or else he'd have just puked all over his satanic offspring of a girlfriend). "Why do you have to go and say _that_?"

She remains composed, and only the slightest giggle escapes from her lips when she answers sweetly, "To see what color you'd turn."

He shakes his head. "And?"

"White, very, very white."

"Not my color."

"No, I wouldn't say so."

There's a moment of silence, a pregnant moment, heavy and hesitant and some other word that starts with an "h." Holy, maybe? No, not holy. He studies the barely blooming flowers of fragile pink and white that edge the sidewalk like frosting (Jesus.) and takes a deep breath before turning back to her, looking very nice, soft, pliant, carefully curved on the edges.

"Rory . . ." He runs a hand through his hair and fumblingly unbuttons his shirtsleeves to roll them up, despite a dank chill that lingers in the air.

She looks at him questioningly.

"You're late."

She nods.

"You're with me."

She nods again. He sees no comprehension in her eyes so he sighs in frustration and traces the edge of the steering wheel with his fingers. The engine continues to crackle.

"I don't . . . it's just that you . . ." He tries again, this time reaching for his pack of cigarettes without slipping one out. Her face changes as she almost sees what he is attempting to say. "You know the shit's gonna hit the fan when I walk in there, with you, late, don't you?"

She says nothing about his distasteful use of expression but only looks down at her hands like she always does when she is afraid he is about to slip from her grasp, helpless and small and breakable. For some reason he thinks of his mother and he inhales so sharply it hurts.

"You promised you'd come with me if I asked you," she reminds him quietly, her hair pooling in the hollows of her neck. He feels violated because he breathes in the scent of her perfume mixed with the smoke that permeates his car (_he is ten, and Liz is sitting at the kitchen table with bruises on her arm and smeared mascara_) and he snaps a little.

"Dammit, I'm here, aren't I?" When she doesn't answer, a pang of guilt bubbles through his chest and he has to speak the truth, lowly, so that she (hopefully) will not hear: "I just want you to know what you're getting into." He pauses and stares at the dashboard. "With . . . with me."

There's a rustle of fabric as she turns to him minutely, her eyes glinting silver in the darkness. For a moment she weighs her words, but she's never been good at that.

Finally, she tells him, "I know." Her breaths are labored all of the sudden, a little more ragged, or maybe those are his, or maybe his-and-hers, one being, but he doubts it. "I know what I'm getting into." She looks down at her hands in her lap when she whispers, "It's scary but I don't think I have much of a choice. Because I already made my choice. And it's you."

He has never been told that before.

All of the sudden he is being suffocated (he needs to smoke) and he stares at her for a moment, sitting there in his passenger seat with her head bowed like shadow and her hair hanging around her face and he feels as if he is going to explode from the overflow of some emotion he can't understand. He turns the key, pockets it, and struggles to shove his car door open without saying anything (he doesn't know what to say), almost stumbling in his haste to get outside and suck in fresh air away from the stifling cloister of his car.

It is in that second when the redemptive gratitude hits him, hissing over him silently in aching, undulating waves.

Someone believes in him?

He has never been the kind of guy to open a door and he doesn't do it now. She slips cautiously out, her eyes apprehensive and wide, as though she thinks she might have chased him away with her admission. He says, "Okay," and that is enough for both of them. She inhales.

"Just protect me from any flying silverware," he whispers to her solemnly (he can't tell if he is joking or not).

She smiles at him and finds his fingers with her own, intertwining them. "No promises."

He sighs melodramatically as they begin to walk across the parking lot together, his free hand in his pocket and hers linking across her front to touch his forearm. He's just indifferently comprehending that she was right, he does look rather underdressed next to everyone else (what the hell is this, a funeral?), when a car door slams nearby and the sound of heels like daggers (poor pavement) occurs to his right. He leans close to her ear.

"And ladies and gentlemen, Sylvia has appeared."

She looks at him, confused. "What?"

"Your mother."

Her eyebrows furrow and she is just about to berate him for comparing the woman who bore her with a woman who stuck her head in an oven when the unmistakable piercing note of an annoyed Lorelai Gilmore cuts out, "Where the hell have you been?"

Rory's look of sincerity turns to one of surprise. "My mother?"

He rolls his eyes in an _I-told-you-so_ and suddenly Lorelai materializes in front of them, his height and rather intimidating, but he doesn't back up an inch and refuses to divert his stare. Rory senses a Clint-Eastwood-type standoff about to occur between them, and starts to trip over herself in explanations.

"There was . . . a light . . . on Route 21 . . . and you went through it but Jess got stopped because he wasn't speeding, nope, was strictly abiding by said federally appointed speed limit . . ."

Lorelai crosses her arms and yanks her glare from him to her daughter. "So you were stopped at a red light for half an hour?"

"Not . . . exactly . . . we didn't know where to go . . . so we had to get directions . . ."

"And an Ice-e," he mumbles under his breath. Rory gives him a look and he shuts up, albeit still smirking.

He can see Lorelai's anger fading, now that the fear of her precious offspring procreating in the back of a car or being laid up in a hospital is relieved. He gives her a long, low stare and he wants to yell or leave or something because she thought he would do anything to intentionally hurt Rory. Doesn't she understand how that fear haunts him all the damn time, how he feels like he's holding a butterfly every once and awhile, or something so terribly fragile that he has to cover his eyes while her glory passes by?

But of course, she doesn't understand, so he says nothing.

"Why didn't you just call me?"

Rory's eyes widen a little. "Yes, well, that does seem like it would have been the most convenient thing to do, doesn't it?"

"You go on dates to bookstores, and you couldn't remember how to use your cell phone?"

She fiddles with his hand. "Oh, common sense. I forgot."

He almost laughs at how those words, coming from anyone else, would sound completely sarcastic, but coming from Rory Gilmore they are the portrait of sincerity.

Lorelai turns back to him. "Hmm. Is it a coincidence that you're around every time we suffer a slight seizure and lapse in judgment?"

His eyebrows rise. "Guess so."

"Fascinating, don't you think?"

"_Oprah_'s doing a piece on me next month."

There's a slight pause. He notices a valet watching them with a look on his face, one that identifies him as beaten brethren, a child of misfortune perhaps (it's the dark amusement in his eyes). He almost offers him a smoke, but then again, that might be rather taboo.

"So, um, Mom . . . have you been sitting in your Jeep waiting for us the whole time?"

"Yep."

"I'm sorry. You had good music, right?"

"Only the Doobie Brothers. I left the rest of my CDs in the silverware drawer at home, so I was forced to listen to the Doobies again and again and again . . . Do you see me turning green? Is there an unfamiliar brand on my forehead? Do I seem to be losing my mind from Doobie and Doobie?"

He says lowly to the pavement, "Oh, believe me, Doobie and Doobie have nothing to do with your insanity."

Lorelai's dramatic face fades to one of the most pure annoyance as she turns to her daughter. "I'm sorry, do you like him or something?"

Rory shrugs helplessly in a "yes" kind of answer.

He hides a grin and stares at the stone walkway in front of them, meditating specifically on the water fountain shaped like a nymph, all of the rocks black and glistening with reflected lamplight. He thinks about filling the spout with rubber cement so that the pipes burst, and then he shakes his (criminally filled) head imperceptibly to ward off evil conniving.

Lorelai glances warily at the front door. "Come on, Bonnie and Clyde," she finally says, swinging her purse over her shoulder. "That which does not kill you makes you stronger."

As they follow her, he scratches the back of his neck and mutters, "Or just maims you for life."

Rory glares at him.

"What? I hear there's great pension for legless people these days. If I end up losing all four limbs, I could be set."

She continues to glare.

"There we go. That's a solution to my college problem. Why search for higher education when you can just be mutilated by a Gilmore and get Social Security for sixty years?"

She's opening her mouth to give some haughty reply when her mother turns around. "I can't go in there."

He raises his eyebrows in amusement (a Lorelai Gilmore meltdown is the most entertaining thing in Stars Hollow next to switching the street signs) as Rory lets go of his hand in order to lend moral support.

"Yes, mom, come on."

"We're late."

"You didn't have to be late. You could have gone in half an hour ago and left us to take the fall. You _chose _to be late."

"Don't spin this. I couldn't leave my poor, defenseless daughter and her hoodlum to face the wrath of Emily Gilmore alone. Stalin, yes. Lenin, yes. The whole Roman army, yes, but not Emily Gilmore."

"It'll be fine. Grandma will be happy to see us."

"Not in less she's already taken a bath with Jack Daniels, she won't."

"Mom . . ."

"Shouldn't we call back up before we go in there half an hour late? Giuliani, maybe, or Al Pacino or someone? Robert de Niro?"

"That's a great idea, but in case you haven't noticed, we look like idiots standing here outside."

"Oh no, no. Rory. Rory, Rory, Rory. I do not look like an idiot. I look like a hesitant woman standing by the front door. You look like an idiot. You look like a teenager trying to push her mother into the yawning abyss."

"Mom, Jess is getting tired of standing here."

"I'm sure he much prefers it to going in there and having his head cut off and then getting cold little appetizer shrimp shoved into his decapitated body."

"You don't know that. He really likes seafood."

"Fine. But I'm telling you, if we walk in there, you are taking your life - and your sanity - in your own hands."

"It's just a dinner. We go in, we eat, we leave."

"We get bombarded by mindless insurance lectures or caught by Bunny and Foo-Foo to engage in chit chat and namedropping of laundry cleaners."

"Mom . . . the sooner we go in the sooner we leave . . ."

"I wish I could take a swig of something with alcohol before I go in there."

She looks at Jess expectantly, and his hand twitches, but he doesn't carry flasks with him anymore. At least not usually. Rory rolls her eyes.

"There's an open bar inside."

"How do you know?"

"There always are at these things."

"You play dirty."

"I know what works."

"Fine, let's go."

"Let's go."

And then the tirade is over. He is grateful that it shaved maybe two minutes off of his sentence, but two minutes is not enough and he prepares himself like a soldier at Gettysburg before pressing his lips together and following his girlfriend inside the haven of Hartford's richest inhabitants, most of which, he will soon realize, think he is an escaped convict from San Quentin or Alcatraz.

He is not at all surprised to find Emily Gilmore waiting for them not two feet inside the front door. In fact, he finds himself wondering blandly if she had cameras installed on the lamps in the parking lot. Wal-Mart does. Sometimes, in the winter, he entertained himself by throwing snowballs at the lenses so they were blocked. He supposes that's a misdemeanor but, hey, he did procure his first library card illegally.

"Do our social functions need to take place during the day, Lorelai?" She asks, a dangerously sickening smile on her face.

"Hello, mom."

"I just thought that maybe you still tell time with a sundial and lose track of the hour once it becomes dark outside."

Rory shifts uneasily on her feet (he sees guilt flickering in crystal blue irises) and slides closer to him so that the outlines of their bodies are fuzzed and blurred together. He swallows heavily.

"No, mom, evenings are fine."

"We don't mean to inconvience you with our little get-togethers."

Lorelai's eyes flash. "Oh, really? Well, then, now that you mention it, I did turn up a night at Hooters to be here, so if you feel that way maybe I'll just go."

Emily distastefully examines Lorelai's strapless gown. "You're dressed appropriately for a Hooters, I see."

And that's all poor Rory can take. Her words come out in a spill to divert attention from her mother as his eyes rake the hall (tables all covered in red satin, flowers, candles, he thinks he's going to be sick with all the cliché attempt at Margaret Mitchell in this room).

"Grandma, no, it's my fault we're late, I was just -"

"Rory! You look lovely this evening. I just adore that dress. Where did you get it? Where did she get that dress, Lorelai?"

Lorelai, however, seems unperturbed by the rocky start to the evening. "Salvation Army."

"Mom made it for me, Grandma."

"Well, it's lovely."

He's thisclose to rolling his eyes when the spotlight is suddenly focused in and narrowed on him (although it is extremely unwelcome). Emily studies him with a certain amount of disgust he has only applied to drug dealers on a middle school playground or Taylor Doose.

"Grandma, you remember Jess?"

The look of disgust on her face does not dissipate and he does not blink as he sees her retracing the now-healed black smear around his eye and checking for a number tattooed on his forearm. "I suppose I do."

Lorelai takes Rory's purse and hands it, as well as her own, over to a guy bound in a starched white dress shirt to be checked in and kept underneath a counter. "He has that kind of effect on people."

He wonders if a nuclear bomb could destroy Emily's hair. Probably not. It's modeled in a Joan River's fashion and it would take more than annihilation to ruin that.

"How are you, Jess?"

His voice is very dry when he answers, "Jolly."

"Ah, yes, I recall."

There's an awkward pause. Rory fidgets for half a second before rambling, "Jess had to get off work tonight. He was slated but I begged and Luke gave in and, well, here we are, although the diner is probably in chaos with no one to serve coffee or watch Kirk to make sure he doesn't smuggle all the creamers and sugar packets. He does that a lot. His mom only buys Splenda. So Luke will probably go bankrupt on sugar packets but Jess came anyway."

He hides a lop-sided grin (he likes it when he rambles although he pretends otherwise and they both know it). Lorelai doesn't bother to hide hers, while Emily looks supremely confused. He looks only at his girlfriend when he says, "It was no big deal."

"Yes it was."

"No, Rory, it was no big deal."

The Gilzilla, as he thinks he might like to mentally refer to her as, waits a beat before poisonously commenting, "So you can say more than two words at once."

His eyes snap over to her and darken. "On occasion."

"How fascinating."

"Feel free to make a recording."

Gilzilla continues to try to stab him with her eyes and he does not back down (he backs down for (almost) no one, the sooner it is learned the better for all parties involved). It is Lorelai who finally cuts the tension cleanly in half.

"Hey, mom, no gladiator fights until after the function."

"I'll have the kitchens cleared."

He sees Emily grasping for her perfect hostess glean, and she finds it in two and a half seconds. "No sense in just admiring the general splendor of the doorway. Our table is by the windows. Your grandfather won't even think about eating until he sees you, Rory. We left the best chairs open for our guests of honor; come this way."

Lorelai gasps. "Really? Who? The Beatles?"

"Or the Adams family?" He whispers into Rory's ear. "Oh wait, too late."

She bites her lip to keep from smiling. Emily does not hear and suddenly seems very tired.

"Oh, Lorelai, Lorelai, how am I going to put up with all of your jokes this evening?"

"Become great friends with the bartender. That's my plan."

As they are led through the hall, he momentarily disappears behind the counter when the bound-in-a-white-shirt kid isn't looking, and seamlessly slips a narrow handbag into his back pocket, snug against a copy of _Ask the Dust. _All of this goes unnoticed as he falls back into step behind Rory.

A portly man he does not recognize with a bowtie on that Walt Disney would be proud of is talking animatedly to a thinner, narrower Version 1.0 of the average businessman. When the portly man sees Rory out of the corner of his eye, he drops the conversation like one of Liz's man-whores and almost materializes by their side.

"Rory! It's so wonderful to see you! You grow lovelier every day."

"So we've heard," Lorelai mutters.

"Thank you, Grandpa. You're looking rather dapper yourself."

"I feel dapper."

And then, just like before, when the initial Rory-radiance fades, Richard Gilmore notices Jess. He chews on the inside of his lip while he waits for the bigger, wider, more generously built, etc. man to make the first move and begins to mentally stake out the rules. There will be no handshakes. There will be no calling of 'son' or 'my boy.' And God forbid, there will be no mentioning of golf or fishing.

"I . . . uh . . ."

"Oh, sorry. Grandpa, this is Jess."

"Jess?"

"My . . ."

He feels Rory struggling for some type of term to aptly describe him without throwing her grandfather into a meaningless fit of rage and rabid-dog-protectiveness. Lorelai attempts to come to the rescue.

"Her gentlemen caller."

His stomach lurches. "Oh jeez."

"My boyfriend. This is Jess, my boyfriend. Um, Luke's nephew. You've met Luke."

There's a beat in which he sees many things clicking in Richard Gilmore's head (fractured-wrists-and-desertion-to-New-York-City-and-black-eyes-and-Rory-tears). He has an explanation burning holes in his tongue (_I-need-her)_ but his mouth won't work and his hands are clenched and he wants to smoke.

"Ah, yes, I see."

He knows he has been rejected before Richard even opens his mouth. His chest unnoticeably heaves as he gives a frustrated exhale because he knows he deserves it.

"Rory, Lorelai, would either of you like a drink? You can have a martini in the back, Lorelai, by the potted palm near the dance floor, do you see? And Rory, there is a quite delectable punch that I think you should try."

He sees the way Rory's eyes cloud over and he wants to tell her, he really does, he wants to say that it's okay, he expected this, just breathe, Rory, breathe, what were you thinking would happen, a frolic through the meadows?, it'll be better this way, he's not offended, dammit, really, just stop looking so damn _hurt _-

Lorelai notices the disappointment that makes her daughter's shoulders slump. "Hey, dad, do you think Jess is thirsty?"

Richard looks at her dangerously, the large bull that has been penned in a corner when he sees his granddaughter holding the hand of the trash that broke her, and Jess feels defiant when he realizes this.

"If the boy is thirsty, he can get a drink himself."

"Or just crazily assume that you might offer him one like you did to the other two members of his party."

"Lorelai-"

"Dad."

Richard takes a deep breath and stares at Rory for a moment before turning to Jess and, without so much as meeting his eyes, asks sarcastically, "You wouldn't happen to be thirsty, would you, Jess?"

"Nope. I'm fine."

"See, the boy is fine, and his voice box seems to be in splendid order, so if by any chance he would happen to be anything _other_ than fine, I am sure he is perfectly capable of alerting random passerby. Now, if you would excuse me, I see some people I have to greet."

Lorelai looks stunned at her father's retreating back. Rory turns to him with something akin to mortification and gritted decision (she is not leaving his side, even after that, and it is this more than the encounter with her grandfather that has his hands shaking).

"I'm so sorry-"

He interlaces their fingers closer together and counts flecks of silver in her eyes. "You look really nice tonight, did I tell you that?"

She shakes her head no, and the trembling smile she gives him as a tear materializes and then vanishes on her eyelash just destroys him.

"Well, you do," he says.

She clutches his arm.

* * *

Alright, there you have it, the first installment. If it's just a boring mesh of nothing, I'll let it die here (better dead than feebly kicking). If you liked it, I should have the next part up soon.

-Kayla


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thanks for the great response to the first chapter! There's not much to say except I hope you enjoy this one as much. One final post will hopefully come in the next couple of days and then this blip on the fanfiction map will be completed. To answer a question: yes, commas are more correct, grammatically speaking, than parenthesises. That's exactly why I opt not to use them; I envision Jess' thoughts as broken up and conflicting much of the time, hence similar thought patterns. Sorry if it's a little irritating :)

**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Self explanatory

* * *

There's the freaky Jeeves-like guy named Floyd, his neurotic son Jason, some French guy named Claude (appropriate for a poodle). He's not being talked to very often but he swears to God that he's going to remember these names for blackmail later, and he's doing a pretty good job so far. Dinner hasn't been served yet - what the hell was he thinking, that the main center of a banquet would be the actual banquet? Stupid, stupid, stupid - so he's sitting awkwardly at the table, with neurotic Jason on one side and Rory on the other and Fante in his pocket (focus on Fante, young one).

It is when the tide of conversation is turning to grandfather clocks (Jesus.) that he is suddenly stripped of the invisibility he has been shrouded with thus far. Claude has been studying him very closely for some time now, his little wife sitting like a housebroken Chihuahua by his side. Having any old guy stare for long extended periods of time can be pretty damn creepy, but Jess feels the question coming and braces himself.

"So, Jess. Tell us: where are you from?"

He grits his teeth as Rory looks at him nervously (how can these people possibly understand neon and booze and ten dollar whores and a mother who falls asleep with bruises and drugs and smeared lipstick?), but he does not miss a beat.

"I live in Stars Hollow."

It does not escape him that Emily's eyes brighten dangerously; she has found a rotten spot in his impenetrable armor and he immediately begins to fortify what is broken.

"What a perfectly evasive answer," she says sweetly. Rory senses the tension.

"Jess, um, he lives with his uncle."

Lorelai nods in enthusiasm at the mere mention of Luke. Jess is half afraid he will walk upstairs one day to find that they have stopped denying their infatuation with each other and are now coupling on the couch. For his own sake, he prays they remain comfortable in their stupidity.

"Yeah, the messianic coffeemaker of Stars Hollow."

Floyd looks slightly appalled (rule one: never use the word 'messianic' at a dinner party). "I'm sorry?"

"Luke, Jess' uncle. He owns a diner in Stars Hollow. He makes the best coffee in all of Connecticut. Probably even the world; Arabia's overrated. What do they have, anyway? Sand and cactuses . . . cacti?" Her forehead wrinkles in confusion and she looks up at Rory inquisitively. "Cactuses? Cacti?"

"I believe they're interchangeable," her daughter volunteers.

"Right. Well . . . Luke makes the best coffee, cacti or cactuses notwithstanding."

Emily's plastic smile falters half a beat, like a song note dropped hastily an octave too low. "I'm sure he would be delighted to learn you're advertising for him at such a party."

"Not likely," Jess mutters under his breath, causing Rory to look at him warningly. He nudges her knee under the table and her frown melts gradually as she takes a drink of water.

"So, Jess, where did you come from before Stars Hollow?" Richard asks (knowingly, that's the worst part). His hands clench as his focus on Rory is lost. He feels like he is suddenly in the midst of a pack of dogs in pearls and tuxedos and almost voices this, but does not. Richard has caught onto something and Jess is determined to not give him a centimeter.

"A bus."

Her grandfather folds his linen napkin. "And the bus?"

"A garage."

Rory looks at him nervously, asking for his forgiveness (his past is surrounded with barbed wire and it's the only thing that is his, dammit, no looking or touching) before she tries to save him. "Jess is from New York."

He does not so much as glance at her (he doesn't know whether to feel grateful or betrayed for the way she does not touch his arm in comfort and lets him stand alone). This makes the I'm-sorry in her eyes intensify.

"Oh, really? Which part?"

He stares unapologetically. "Brooklyn."

"Oh." Richard stops looking at him and mumbles loud enough for the table to here, "Well, better than the penitentiary."

The flowers on the table, he notices, are mostly fresh, but the one furthest on the right is wilted and browned around the edges (not the drugs and the sex and the stolen cars, not the corrupted police or the homeless bums or the smuggled cigarettes, not how he had to mix water with the milk to make it last longer and how he lied to the landowner to allow a delay in the rent). Without blinking, he answers, "Sometimes."

Rory seems frozen. He tries to tell her that it's okay but there are no more words; he is dry, cleaned out, empty. The tension races around the table like flame to dried grass and he begins to play with his fork, drumming it idly on his open palm.

It is Lorelai who finds her voice first (not that he's extremely surprised). "Dad-"

"Richard," says a voice, and it is neurotic Jason obviously trying to spread himself over the fallen hand grenade, "the bourbon is amazing, but I have to know if there's any possibility of a whiskey and a soda in this place."

"I don't know, Jason; that would be a fine question to pose to someone with command of the hall's drink stash."

Whiskey and soda is part of Hemingway's gospel (Ernest's Number One Rule: sex, guns, sex, and whiskey and soda can cure any goddamned ailment of the American man). It seems rather ironic that it should be mentioned here of all places, with a sign in airbrushed script advertising the after-dinner speaker on philanthropy in the twenty-first century, and he smirks.

Jason seems taken aback by his expression of amusement. "What?" When Jess remains silent, he becomes more paranoid. "What, did I just make a really funny joke on accident?"

It provides a perfect moment for Lorelai to mutter, "You are a really funny joke on accident."

Jess clears his throat. "Nothing."

"No, really, what was so funny about my drink choice?"

He appraises him silently.

"Have you ever read Hemingway?"

"No . . ."

"Then it was nothing."

A beat of silence. Claude and his wife are conversing in French while Floyd talks to a woman sitting at an adjacent table. Gilzilla tries to engage Floyd in discussion with his own group as opposed to fraternizing with the enemy, but it appears she is failing while Lorelai chugs a martini and Rory smiles a little. He looks at her and communicates with his eyes. She knows. She read _A Farewell to Arms_. He likes that she knows.

During this time, Richard's eyes flick hesitantly over to his face, mapping him out as an actual individual like was refused to him before, and he can feel this.

"You read Hemingway?"

Jess looks up. "Most people don't live completely under a rock, even in the penitentiary."

Rory's cheeks color a little when she realizes something good might be about to happen. She silently begs him to forgive her grandfather for his earlier indiscretions, please, as she grasps for some firm holding between her boyfriend and the only stable male relative in her life. "Hemingway is Jess' favorite author, Grandpa."

He does not like that she is trying to build bridges for him, and he shoots her a low warning glance, which she ignores. He removes his hand from where it was touching her chair and sticks it in his pocket. This she notices and she looks at him questioningly as his insides contract (she has just taken a private part of him and spilled it on the table for all to cut up and dissect).

"You Americans and your American authors," Claude interjects suddenly from his end of the table, interrupting his conversation with his fragile wife. "There is too much brutalism; too little love. There is enough of this in real life and we do not need it to be in our books as well. That is why fairy tales are so popular, no? And the French!"

Richard watches him carefully and Jess does not like being on display, so the argument he had planned dies on the tip of his tongue and all he says is, "Camus."

"I am sorry?"

"You're French?"

"That I am."

"Camus didn't always write about love. He was pretty brutal, if you ask me."

When Richard agrees with sudden interest ("That's right, he was.") and Claude sees himself as beaten and backs out of the debate ("You cannot judge the league of French authors just based on one man!"), all the comment Jess makes is, "Huh."

Rory looks a little proud of him now that she sees he is not angry with her, because he can't be, not in the real, honest-to-God way; she has just done what no one else has ever done before: tried to show him to others from the different angles she sees.

Richard smiles a little when his granddaughter does. Emily sees this and he knows she thinks she is about to lose her husband to the dark side, to the acceptance side (which is the first step), to the maybe-not-but-maybe-so side, so she tries to manipulate things her way since manipulation is her only weapon. It has always worked so far, but then again, she has never come up against someone quite like him.

"Is it stuffy in here?" She asks, waving her copy of the evening's agenda by her face. "I can have them turn on the ceiling fans if it's stuffy in here."

Lorelai gives her mother an incredulous look. "I seriously doubt that will help."

"Oh no, Emily, it's fine," Floyd insists.

His son adds, "It's nice. Balmy."

While Lorelai begins to educate Jason on the proper timing of sarcastic comments, Jess turns to Rory. He is just about to tell her something (anything) when Richard clears his throat.

"So, you read."

He studies Rory for one more second before answering noncommittally, "It's been known to happen."

"More than just the expiration dates on pickle jars."

"I see you've met my uncle."

"And you like Hemingway."

She has suffered through many misunderstandings this evening but it is this that she cannot take, and before he can so much as blink, Rory states indignantly, "Not just Hemingway. Ayn Rand, too."

The age-old dispute is resurrected, rotting and groaning. He sighs in irritation, rolling his eyes and leaning back in his chair as he defends his lax grip on reality. "I do not like Ayn Rand."

"You said you did!"

"I said she was unique."

"She was unique."

"I said she was insane."

"She was insane."

"That does not equate 'like.'"

She bristles with irritation at his low-cultured ways (he mutters "elitist" so only she can hear and that frustrates her even more) and is just about to condemn him to hell in the best way Rory Gilmore knows how (the Full House version) when Richard interrupts the beginning of a very spirited conversation.

"Rand, hmm? A necessary endeavor for all lovers of literature."

He scoffs. "Trials build character."

She rolls her eyes. "You are so overdramatic."

"Says the woman couldn't get through 112 of _The Old Man and the Sea_."

"Who wants to listen to some man think about fish?"

"I do."

"You can't stand fishing."

"Oh yeah, because you've seen me fish so many times."

"That's just it. I haven't."

"I fish."

She crosses her arms. "Fishing for people by buying baskets and cleaning gutters does not count."

With that, he smirks and lets the subject drop. Her grandfather looks rather confused.

- - - - - - - - -

Half an hour later. God, he's endured thirty more minutes of mindless words frothing from these jackasses' mouths. He doesn't even think they're forming sentences anymore. It sounds like Dr. Seuss high on speed, or something. Is that a white light ahead? Is there a sanctuary for -

"So, Jess, what brought you to Connecticut?"

He starts out of his pool of self-pity and shakes his head slightly. The chandelier above them is taking beams of white light to divide into glassy rainbows that fall across the embossed wall. He notices Rory tense up and realizes someone must have just asked him something that he won't want to answer.

"What?"

The thin businessman with no hair barely conceals a discontented sigh (apparently he is used to being the sun of whatever solar system he circles in; well, not mine, buddy) and folds his lean fingers together with a smile reminding him strangely of Emily Gilmore's (who in turn got that same smile from Genghis Khan. It's a shame Genghis couldn't join them tonight, it might be a little more interesting. But then again, if he imposes really dark, thick eyebrows on Gilzilla's forehead it's almost like Genghis is right here along beside him. Huh. Maybe that's what immortality is, when someone imposes your eyebrows on their girlfriend's grandmother. But what about people who don't have any eyebrows? Purgatory?).

"I asked what brought you to Connecticut."

He feels himself instantly retreating behind protective armor as he twirls an empty wineglass between his fingers. Rory looks like she wants to say something but doesn't know what that might be.

"Well, I'm particularly fond of the pie fairs," he deadpans. He doesn't want to think about the rest (_he's six, on Tommy's fire escape, when the bug zapper sizzles through hot summer air, and Tommy's older brother Rico turns to him._ _"You hear that noise, kid?" Rico asks, taking a drag off a cigarette. "That's the last sound stupid criminals ever hear. So you better be clean when you work, you hear me?")_.

Floyd looks at him uncertainly, unable to tell whether or not he's serious.

"Good, so you'll be joining in the next Stars Hollow Festival, then?" Lorelai asks seriously, gnawing on an ice cube. "Should I sign you up to be the talking corndog or the Mad Hatter?"

Rory's eyes cut across the table like lightning. "Mom . . ."

"Well, Kirk always wants to be the corndog, so I guess that leaves you with . . ."

"I would hazard to suppose," Floyd continues, interrupting Lorelai's bit that Jess did not stop to notice, "they wouldn't have many pie fairs in Brooklyn."

"Nope," Jess agrees. "Drug busts, mainly."

Floyd doesn't quite know what to say to that. Luckily, Lorelai is trying explain to Jason the intricate workings of a corndog and the rest of the table is discussing some now-distant trip to a godforsaken Communist country.

"Are you thirsty?"

He looks over at Rory and feels slightly okay. He touches her thigh and her fingers snakes up to lock with his.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

Floyd watches them with interest.

"It's no big deal."

"Not thirsty."

"Really, I can go with you to get a drink."

He sighs, defeated, and sticks his free hand back in his pocket. "You know what? I think I want a soda."

She smiles a tiny smile at him (it's a 'thank you' and he carefully files it somewhere in his brain to remember later once this hell has blown over). "Okay." And turning to her family, she says graciously, "We'll be right back."

She guides him through a forest of tables and cocktail dresses and cologne clouds, edging behind swirling waiters carefully balancing trays of scallops and cheeses and all other kinds of revolting appetizers. When they break through the dense bramble of a crowd of men arguing about some stupid aspect of the stock market (he does listen intently despite mentally mocking them), she finally makes it to the counter. He leans against it.

"I'll have a Sprite, please." The bartender nods. She turns to him. "Jess?"

"Beer."

"Jess."

"Undiluted moonshine."

"Jess!"

"I'm not totally opposed to nail polish remover."

"He'll have a Coke."

Another nod and the bartender turns away, rummaging for ice and cups and obviously already marking Jess out as the one kid to watch in this herd of over a hundred people.

She leans next to him, her elbow slightly brushing his, her hair smelling like something light and fruity and fresh even from a foot's distance. He breathes it in slowly and prays she cannot tell he is doing so because it is so much better when she doesn't know.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, her fingers tracing the edge of his sleeve. "I'm sorry about . . . all of them. They just . . . I'm sorry."

"Hey, it's nothing," he says lowly, staring through lowered eyelids at the platform where someone is arranging the speaker's podium.

"Yes it is. They had no right . . . You were having a bad night before, with the black eye and Wal-Mart and all that, and you came even though you didn't want to. I never thought they'd act like that."

He shrugs. He doesn't tell her he tried to warn her because he figures she's already put that together.

"Here you go. Enjoy." The bartender leaves their drinks on the counter and he stares at his for a moment before sipping it conservatively, while she does not taste hers.

"Hey, Jess?"

"Yeah?"

She inhales carefully. "It means a lot that you're here."

He says nothing, but simply stares at her and carefully transfers a thousand answers from his palms to hers without words (the spoken word has always betrayed him and he does not trust it anymore). He sees the beginning signs of a telltale burn spreading through her cheeks and bleeding into her skin and he knows he causes that and he's proud and ashamed at the same time.

"Yeah, it means a lot," she echoes, softly.

"Well, it's not over yet. Unfortunately," he mutters, not looking at her (to do so would destroy him).

"But you're doing great. Despite all of it."

"The whole silence thing seems to work best."

"My grandfather likes you."

"I expect he's going to tell the ax man he has waiting by my car that he doesn't have to chop my head off."

She crosses her arms sternly. "Now, don't get too full of yourself."

He smiles for the first time since they got here.

"My mistake."

Her eyes light up, light gleaming through them like it would through broken pieces of sea glass. The pulse in her throat starts to flutter, and they hold each other's gaze for a long, unbroken thread of moment.

All at once she starts. "We have to go mingle."

He watches her toy with a strand of hair nervously, her eyes darting in paranoid arcs around them, and he - the runner, the shadow, the formless mist - would be content to just stand here and observe her for hours (it might make this fucked up medical experiment of a party worth it). He almost tells her, but he doesn't. Instead, he raises an eyebrow.

"'Mingle?' What the hell is 'mingle?'"

Images of bingo and Martha Stewart and wine coolers and watercress sandwiches begin to pirouette through his head.

"I don't know but we have to do it."

"And why is that, exactly?"

"Because," she states hurriedly, giving him an indignant look, her arms crossed insecurely over her chest.

"Because . . .?"

"Because you're standing there," she explains nervously, looking at the floor.

"Right," he agrees, blandly. "I haven't got a hold of the whole levitation thing yet."

"Because you're standing there, and you're looking at me, and I want to kiss you."

He smirks and bites his lip. "Huh."

"And I can't exactly jump your bones right in the middle of my grandparents' function, can I?"

"Well," he says, not touching her, and not needing too (she's blushing already), "it sounds dangerous, but I'm willing to give it a try."

Finally, she meets his eyes. "Jess . . ."

"Live on the edge."

She shakes her head at him in disbelief. "See those people over there?" She asks exasperatedly, waving her hands in a general circle over the entire globe. "We're already on the edge, tinkering over a black abyss!"

He laughs a little, almost inaudibly, and doesn't look at anyone else. "You should really cross 'motivational speaker' off your list of career options."

"Well, I'm not trying to be motivating."

"Good, because you suck at it."

"Oh, yeah, like you're the one with the pom-poms in this relationship."

He's so close he can see the different shades of burnt gold and deep sandalwood in her hair. "I like to think I am about certain things."

She bites her lip and downs the rest of her soda like a stiff shot, but she still smiles. Not while looking at him, but the smile is because of him nonetheless.

"You are," she says. "About certain things."

He watches her walk away back to the ninth circle of hell.

"I wasn't kidding about the nail polish remover," he tells the bartender offhandedly.

The bartender's eyes narrow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **Alright everyone, last little addition to this teensy trio. Thanks for all the strong reviews and sticking with me through this arguably pointless meandering three-shot. We see many complicated facets of Jess in this chapter, I now see as I reread it. Hmm. Hopefully they all came out alright? In any case, enjoy!

**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Most of it, anyway.

* * *

As a general rule, he avoids eating foods he doesn't know the name of. And even some he does. Living in Brooklyn and working in a diner has taught him much; namely, the hamburger meat looks a whole lot different in the fridge than it does on a plate. Unless you know where it comes from, its contents could be anything from rubber scraps to leftovers scraped off the floor of slaughterhouses (Slaughterhouse Five?). Combined with the fact that he can't even pronounce the name of this damn meal, it makes him not very hungry.

"What is this, exactly?" He asks lowly, poking with his fork at a mound of minced something.

"It says on the menu," Rory answers. He notices she, too, is being extremely cautious.

"Yeah, well, my wealth of French knowledge is momentarily failing me. Care to assist?"

When she remains silent, he leans confidentially closer to her.

"You read _The Jungle_, right?"

Immediately her eyebrows furrow and her grip on the fork grows lax. "Oh, gross!"

"This could be anything from rat's excrement to sliced up Jurgis."

"_Why _do you have to reference something like-"

"Now, Jess, what year are you in?"

He has felt the Gilmore patriarch watching him for some time, so he's not surprised by the abrupt question. He rolls his fork between his fingers and almost risks stuffing his face with the possibly poisoned food just so he won't have to converse.

"Senior."

"Ah," Richard comments, civilly now, but with a dim light of suspicion well and alive in his eyes. "Same as Rory."

"Last time I heard."

"And you come from New York," Claude interjects from across the satin tablecloth. His hair is all slicked back except for one wild lick that sticks out perpendicular to his eye. Kind of like the portrayal of Dr. Jekyll in that thirties movie.

"It's tattooed on my forearm," he mumbles (haven't they already covered this topic before?).

"Do you plan to return there to attend college?"

God _damn_. Why don't they just lose the suits and show their true Spanish Inquisition uniforms?

He notices Rory is suddenly very still beside him and anger makes the veins in his hands pop.

"Mom? What in God's name is this food?"

"I believe the edible sort, Lorelai."

"That's debatable."

"Haven't decided," he answers coolly, hiding his clenched fists. Piano music tinkers softly in the background and finally, _finally_, the speaker of the evening is taking a few last sips of water before beginning.

Emily fixes dangerously live eyes on him, her posture relaxed and calm. "Why? Holding out for something good, like garbage collector?"

He meets her stare head on. "Well, I know better than to aim too high."

"That's clever. Wouldn't want to outrun your initiative."

He mentally adds, _'Someday, I'm hoping to even marry for money and sit on my ass all day doing nothing, but one step at a time._' In actuality, he says unflinchingly, "I thought so."

Their exchange is over so fast that no one is able to comment. Even Lorelai is silent. Rory is speechless. Richard is clueless. Jess is just tired of it.

In a brave attempt to diffuse a ticking time bomb, Floyd leans casually forward on the table and continues for all the world as if he has not been interrupted (and maybe in his egomaniac tiny mind he hasn't), "Ah, well, there's still plenty of time for all that. I think the most popular male major is 'undecided.' Isn't that right, Jason?"

His son clears his throat and nods after taking a thick swallow of wine. "Sounds well thought out."

"But the best men eventually come to a point in their lives where they have the ability to make a decision that labels them as great, which I'm sure will happen for you."

"Beautifully said, Floyd," Claude comments.

God. He half expects to hear _Chariots of Fire _soaring through the background.

"Isn't that right, Jason?" Floyd repeats, turning expectantly.

This time, Jason squares his shoulders and says brightly, "I haven't done the actual research, Dad, but I think you just want me to agree with absolutely no opinion of my own whatsoever."

Jess looks down at his food, amused. He can see Rory doing the same thing. Even without a visual, he feels the disgusted look fired across the table. Lorelai snorts.

"Well, Richard, Emily," Claude suddenly shoots, also guzzling his wine. Wine is a waste of money, really. It won't kick you as high as a twelve pack and it costs more than Liz's monthly rental. It's like a tax on stupidity. "The food is delicious. Not quite French, I'm afraid . . . more of some hybrid, but delicious nonetheless."

"Why, thank you, Claude. I worked very hard to prepare it," Richard attempts to joke.

"Ah, yes, and you still look as dashing as always!"

"And Rory," Floyd asks as soon as he's finished flaying his son with his glare, "Now that I've talked to your friend here about college, I'm curious :what are your plans?"

It does not escape Jess how Richard is beaming at his granddaughter, for all the world as if he is living vicariously through her once again. It takes him much mental focus to keep from demanding everyone back off and let her be.

"I . . . um . . ." She glances hesitantly at him, but he refuses to manipulate her like everyone else in her life does so he stares at his plate. "I've applied to three schools so far."

"Three kickass schools," Lorelai adds helpfully. Floyd ignores her.

"Yes?"

"Yes. Just . . . just waiting to hear back, actually."

"From which ones?"

"I . . . well . . ." (He vaguely wonders if this is a quality she has learned from him, this inability to talk about her hopes and dreams and maybes. He hopes not.) "Harvard, Yale, and Princeton."

Richard seriously looks like he's about to produce a damn rocket pack and orbit Earth. (It's gonna be a long, long time 'til touchdown . . . rocket man . . .)

His business associate shares his orgasmic pleasure. "What tremendous schools! I know your grandfather is a Yale man, but what about his granddaughter? What is your first choice?"

Fingers pulling at her napkin, she says quietly, "Well . . . I've always wanted to go to Harvard . . ."

And he whispers, so lowly he doesn't know if she can hear, "You will."

She does. Her eyes snap to him and search his face.

He wants to kiss her.

"Harvard! Why, Harvard is an excellent option! I myself went to Harvard. I would be happy to put in a good word for such an outstanding young lady."

Jason shakes his head. "She's too old for you, Dad."

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are pleased to have as our speaker at our thirty-second annual Amity Dinner the distinguished . . ."

Her hand reaches for his under the table, even though she has turned away. He strokes the inside of her palm with his thumb.

Some bald little hack with glasses (like Truman, he thinks idly) waits nervously as he is introduced and downs a few more chugs of water. Maybe it's vodka. Seeing the poor guy's pale face, he almost hopes it is. Lorelai sighs dramatically and raises her eyebrows at her daughter before turning with renewed concentration to her martini.

"What did they say this man is?" Richard whispers indignantly to his wife, loosening his bow tie. "The head of some non-profit Web bonanza? He probably sells T-shirts and canine toys. They usually have more dignified guests at these things."

"Well," Emily returns weightily, "I guess they've decided to let anyone in. It's an exercise to practice what they preach. Philanthropy."

She looks straight at him. No one else notices. He bristles with eighteen years of suffering but he does not speak (the true martyr never speaks).

Well, actually, Rory might have noticed.

Very calmly, almost delicately, she folds her napkin into a triangle and places it parallel to her plate. Without looking at anyone or making even the faintest sound, she gently pushes her chair backward and stands. She doesn't pause as she fluidly pushes it back in, turns on her heel, and walks collectedly away.

"Rory," her grandmother hisses, gripping the arms of her chair. "Rory. There is a speaker up there. This is unbelievably rude. Rory!"

Lorelai doesn't call after her daughter. She watches her with full eyes that are soft and sorry on the edges.

Bidding a silent, profanity-filled goodbye to the nameless regurgitation on his plate, he stands up, too, and follows her, weaving through tables watching them with rabid curiosity. He doesn't push his chair in. They can stick it up their collective suburban ass.

She bypasses the bar and escapes to a lounge near where the restrooms are. He walks in to find her sitting on the edge of a couch.

"I'm sorry," she says, without looking at him.

He says nothing and leans against the doorframe, his hands deep in his pockets.

"I couldn't let her keep talking like that. I couldn't stand it."

He counts the freckles on her nose.

"There are so many things about you that she doesn't know, that she-"

"Hey," he interrupts suddenly, standing a little straighter. "Let's leave."

Her monologue ends with an abrupt inhale as she looks at him with disbelief. "What?"

The speaker continues to drone on and on, without point or purpose, murdering the reason for words. Heavy, burnt orange curtains enshroud symmetrical windows, where darkness glitters and beckons to him like darkness always does.

He repeats, "Let's leave."

"We . . . I can't just . . . my grandpa . . . someone's talking, and . . . we can't . . ."

"Of course we can."

His eyes are intent on her face. She looks at him with tongues of adventure flickering up through her blood, suffering the beginning of the little seizure and slight lapse in judgment her mother warned about.

"Leave? Just like that?"

"Who's going to stop us?"

The way her arms straighten and she almost stands tells him no one. Then, suddenly, her shoulders droop and she begins to nervously jiggle her foot. "I can't. I left my bag in the check-in room, and to go get it I'd have to walk all the way back through-"

Ah. And this was what he had foreseen oh so many unspeakable hours ago; props for premature foresight. With an exaggerated flourish, he produces the narrow satchel from his back pocket, which she looks at uncomprehendingly.

"That's my bag."

"That's your bag."

All at once she crosses the room and stands next to him in disbelief. He watches the small designs on her black dress ebb and flow with the movement of her legs. "That's my bag! How did you get this? I gave it to the . . . and he . . . How did you get this?"

He shrugs casually. Her eyes dance and she whispers that she doesn't care. She just doesn't care.

Me either, he agrees.

The bartender is the last one to see them as they slip out a back exit, near the kitchens. He looks smug and vindicated (he _knew _he had to watch that kid, he _knew _it was trouble in the making, and he was right). Jess gives him a nod of acknowledgement before placing his hand on the small of Rory's back and guiding her into the night (always guiding her into the night).

The door snaps shut soundlessly behind them ("And the virtue of progress," the Truman clone is saying, "of dare I say it, _moral_ capitalism, is its foundation in the Gospel of Wealth . . .").

They say nothing for awhile. She loops her fingers with his.

The same valet that observed them so familiarly before is still standing idly by the front door, bored, trying to juggle four sets of keys at once. One stabs his finger as it falls through the air and he curses impressively, letting them all clatter at his feet.

Jess leaves Rory standing at an illuminated flowering tree (damn bee magnet) and walks casually over to him. The valet stops sucking his finger to look at him with defiance, curiosity, recognition. His hand-eye coordination obviously isn't stellar, but that's not the point.

"Smoke?" Jess asks him tonelessly, flipping open his pack of Camels from his pocket with a simple flick of his wrist.

The valet judges him for a moment. Finally, he says, "Sure."

They leave him silently standing there in the heavily perfumed darkness, etching it with silver pirouettes. If Rory doesn't understand, she doesn't ask for an explanation, and Jess is grateful.

They're almost to the car when she finally speaks. She stops in the parking lot, her hair sticking to her neck and face from a silent breeze (relief brushing across his eyelashes).

"I'm sorry. I am. I'm so sorry."

He nods, licks his lips, and inquires, "Indian tonight?"

Her eyes flutter up to meet his. "You don't like Indian."

"I know."

"I think you even hate Indian."

"Huh."

Frustrated but smiling, she demands, "Why can't you ever just follow a predictable pattern?"

He shrugs, and for the hell of it, opens her door for her.

- - - - - - - - -

They are safely ten miles away from that hall built out of the blocks of hell and glued together by the mire of Hades (he's feeling rather partial to imagery at the moment), hidden in some tiny Hartford hole in the wall: Rajev's, Rakesh's? Something like that. He watches her order curried chicken and another thing he's never heard of before that starts with an "m." The smell is killing him slowly, molecule by molecule, but he focuses on her collarbones, her blessed collarbones. Beside him sits a greasy sack from a drive thru burger joint.

Hey, he's not the pope or anything.

As she plows through rice and he twirls French fries in his fingers, they talk about the true meaning of _The Power and the Glory_, how the priest longs for no responsibility and maybe that is why the idea of God and a driving fate appeals to him. He thinks so, she thinks he's insane, but he makes her laugh so hard she almost spits up her soda. They bump knees under the table and brush elbows when he reaches for a napkin.

When she excuses herself to the restroom, he tells a nearby waiter that it's her birthday. He is good at lying and he even adds how they tried to go to a movie with her favorite actor, someone with real talent, Morgan Freeman, but it was sold out so they just stood in the parking lot instead, and is that any way to celebrate a monumental eighteenth birthday? Cultivating such pity pays off when the waiter appears with a massive almost-cheesecake (why they always have synthetic cheesecakes in these places, he'll never quite understand), accompanied by a fantastic number of his co-workers that seem to have suddenly grown and multiplied and undulated in the past five minutes until they exceed the whole population of Connecticut.

Not that that's saying much.

She looks at him, confused, when she returns. "What's going on?"

He just smirks.

"Happy birthday!" The waiter cries with an accent and a smeared smock. He and his colleagues proceed to sing the whole damn song in his native language (Hindi?) as he sticks a lit sparkler atop the mounds of frozen cool whip.

"Jess, what did you _do_?"

"Hey, you didn't want more complementary fried banana, did you? And slinging hash for Luke doesn't exactly pay for fringe benefits."

As the sparkler continues to spit and sputter silver flame, the resistance in her face drains. She giggles before closing her eyes to make a wish.

Without saying a word and without understanding exactly why, he leans across the table and kisses her. Her eyelids flutter in surprise with an explosion, such a violent explosion as the sparkler retreats to a throbbing ember and is forgotten.

(In the end, they are all that remains.)


End file.
